


The Easiest of Instructions

by springbok7



Series: An Assortment of Teas and Biscuits [7]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: #MinervaSafe, 007 Fest, 007 Fest Fancreations, 007 games, Alec and Q are mad-genius lab partners, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Alec, Asexual Character, Fluff, Multi, Skyfall did not die at Skyfall, Team M-branch, The author misplaced the plot, domestic Sixers being... domestic. and naughty, established poly relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-05-18 20:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14860149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springbok7/pseuds/springbok7
Summary: Q, Alec, and James spend some time at Skyfall. James attempts to cook. Alec and Q do research. Until they don't.





	The Easiest of Instructions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AsheTarasovich (natalieashe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/gifts), [Dassandre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dassandre/gifts), [Boffin1710](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boffin1710/gifts).



> Dedicated to found family. You guys keep me sane.
> 
> Beta-ed by the ever-amazing [Dassandre](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dassandre), without whom my writing would be a pale shade of itself. All remaining errors and typos are mine alone. Please feel free to let me know if you spot any and/or feel there should be additional tags. I welcome constructive criticism, but neither support or feed trolls.
> 
>  
> 
> _I do not own these characters. No infringement of copyright is intended and no profit is being made from this piece of fan-fiction._
> 
>  
> 
> Written 22 April 2018

James hums under his breath as he putters around the kitchen.  He’s found a recipe online that looks so straightforward even  _ Alec _ could manage it without burning down the kitchen.  

Probably.

If James let him  _ near  _ the kitchen.

Which...  not happening in a month of Sundays.

The three men are holed up at Skyfall for the week.  Both Double Os are off-mission and the Quartermaster delegated all active operations to his staff: none sufficiently complex to require his attendance.

This is a very rare occurrence, and they are making the most of it by enjoying every precious second.

They are all due -- and then some, with interest -- for a holiday.

Q is sat at the enormous table.  Old-fashioned paper notes and actual books mingle with a hightech laptop and bleeding edge tablet spread out in scattered chaos that James knows from long -- and painful -- experience is anything but.

‘Tidying up the mess’ is a sure fire way to earn oneself a ‘a pellet gun and a walkie talkie for the next mission’ threat.

Or a cold, sofa-shaped bed.

James is man enough to admit he can’t decide which one terrifies him more.

Alec returns from the sitting room, more books in hand, and resumes his haphazard sprawl over the chair beside Q. 

James spares him a glance and a quirked eyebrow, not that either of them are looking at him.  Alec has, yet again, turned the chair around and is leaning his chin on the top slate of its back as he cracks open the first of the two tomes.  

For all that they have been at Skyfall since long before either James or Alec were birthed, the heavy wooden chairs seem to be made for Alec: the height of the back just right for him to read over the top of it, the width perfectly supports his broad torso but is not so wide his arms can’t comfortably wrap around to reach the table.

Oblivious to James’ scrutiny or judgement, he murmurs softly to Q.  Whatever the boffin murmurs back guides Alec’s quick eyes and dexterous fingers as he searches through the musty pages.

They’ve been working on this project for months, but neither will tell James what it’s all in aid of.

James shakes his head and turns back to his self-appointed task.

Peppercorns cracked?  Check.

Onions caramelised?  Check.

Garlic minced and lightly browned?  Check.

Mushrooms sautéed with the onions and garlic?  Check

Slide the skillet off the hob, set aside to finish with the residual heat of the cast iron.

That done, he riffles through the cupboards for the dried herbs and spices they all enjoy: basil, marjoram, thyme, cayenne, oregano.

He turns to the fridge: a sleek and modern stainless steel work of art Q insisted upon having, that at first seemed utterly out of place in the rustic lodge kitchen.  Now James is glad of it and rummages through the shelves, collecting the rest of his ingredients. 

Butter.  Eggs. The yogurt he made two days ago when they’d first arrived.

And then the meats to go with it all.  

Black pudding, Stornoway of course.  Because James grew up on the stuff, and Alec will eat anything that doesn’t eat him first.

And lorne, because Q’s never quite liked black pudding as much as the square sausage when James makes a traditional breakfast.

He fails to notice the appreciative glances his backside -- clad only in the scruffy joggers he prefers to wear when at Skyfall -- garners from the men at the table when he bends and twists.

James piles the lot on the countertop near the hob, takes up the spatula, and carefully turns the tomatoes in their saucepan, steeping in the drippings from yesterday’s bacon. A peek at the beans is enough to migrate that dish from the hot oven to the warmer -- burnt baked beans somehow not on the list of desirable morning fare. 

Minutes later the sausages he’s sliced are sizzling in the skillet, the mushrooms and onions keeping warm in a bowl beside the beans.

He whisks a little milk into the yogurt, adds the spices, and sets it aside.  The recipe claims yogurt makes for an exceptionally soft and fluffy scramble. 

He’s willing to give it a go.

The sausages are flipped, browning nicely and smelling sinfully delicious.

He hears chuckles from the direction of the table and turns his head as he is checking the tomatoes.

Alec and Q are both watching him.

“Breakfast’ll be a few minutes more,” he tells them as he slides the cooked sausages into their bowl.

Q waves his hand in an encompassing gesture, “What brought this on?”

James shrugs.

“Found a new recipe online.  Instructions looked dead easy so thought I’d give it a try.  Use that yogurt I made.”

“Smells good, mate,” is Alec’s sole contribution to the conversation.

James turns back to the hob.  The eggs and the toast are the last to cook. 

As he is counting off the slices, a callused but gentle hand slides up his bare bicep to his shoulder.

He turns, surprise on his face, and a second hand mirrors the first, sliding from his shoulder to his neck, trapping his jaw between two palms as Alec dips in to kiss him.

James’ eyes widen and then close as he gives himself over to the unexpected gift.  

A participatory Alec is to be savoured.  Cherished and appreciated. 

And never taken for granted.

Breath ghosting from one set of lungs into the other.  And then returning from whence it came.

Tongues slipping, sliding over each other.  Exploring, tasting, dipping into the hollows between tooth and gum.  

No secret undiscovered.  No breath unshared.

Teeth nipping at lips, tongue soothing the sharp and perfect sting.

A second set of hands eases the bread from James’ grip and tosses the bag and the slices in the general direction of the worktop.  A firm grip on his wrists tugs James forward, pulling him tight against Alec’s chest; their bare skin is separated by just the apron hanging from James’ neck.  No matter how many times Q has chastised him for cooking in so little, it’s the only clothing he wears aside from the joggers. And Alec is a furnace, he’d swan around starkers if they’d let him get away with less than his own manky joggers.  Neither agent has any shame.

The forward motion not only presses them chest to chest, but also moulds their hips together, and Alec slides a knee between James’ own. The pressure of Alec’s hip and thigh pulls a growl from James, lost in the kiss that does not end.

James groans into Alec’s mouth, while hands slide over James’ ribs, slick with his sweat.  They vanish for a moment, but only so Q can slip from behind Alec and slot himself between James and the countertop.

Q’s lips press kisses against the knobs of James’ spine, and Q’s hands -- those marvelous, ingenious hands -- brush over James’ skin to trace the contours of his ribs.

He arches back against the tall boffin when those wandering fingers dance across his nipples beneath the apron.

A sharp twist on each and the sensitive flesh pebbles, aeroles crinkling as the nubs swell.

James cannot help the stutter in his hips as Alec finally breaks their kiss.

In this place, there are no walls between the three men.  No hyperawareness. No hair triggers.

The dogs roaming the acreage, beloved companions to Kincaid, will alert should any who do not belong set foot within their borders. 

This is their sanctuary, their escape, where James can give himself over completely and unreservedly to the attentions of his lovers.  As they can to his.

And so James does.

His eyes open as Alec and Q move as one.  Herding him, guiding him, until he is turned and facing the hob.

No, not the hob.  The worktop. The uncracked eggs and untoasted bread sit innocently on the surface before him.

A press from Alec, a tug from Q, and James is maneuvered back a step -- forced into a wider stance to avoid standing on Q’s solidly planted feet --  and trapped still between Q and Alec.

Alec’s hands loosen from his jaw, fingers trail briefly through his hair and then slide down his arms, guiding his hands to rest against the edge of the countertop behind Alec; his elbows press against Alec’s flanks while his arse pushes back against Q as he is bent forward.

“Wha --” he begins, and then feels Q’s nimble fingers glide down over the hard muscle of his abdomen until they slither under the elastic of his joggers.

A glance up at Alec shows only a self-satisfied smirk before the joggers are dropping down.

And so is Alec.

The coarse material of the apron barely grazes his freed erection before the material is pushed to the side and hot, wet silk replaces it, enveloping him in sweet, burning suction.

Alec does nothing by half measures.

James cannot help the second stutter of his hips as he slumps forward, his braced arms taking his weight.  Alec’s strong fingers dig into the flesh of his thighs above the joggers’ elastic, preventing further movement.

Fingers James knows to be elegant and strong skate up the front of his thighs, pause briefly to caress Alec’s fingers, and then flow over James’ flanks to circle his ribs and draw him up and back.

A groan claws its way up his throat.  Alec surges forward as Q moves James, that hot, wet heat swallowing him down as Alec buries his nose in the musky scent between thigh and groin.

He hums, and James’ hips try -- and fail -- to fuck into that agonisingly blissful heat.

He tips his head back against Q’s shoulder, the boffin plastered against every centimetre of James’ back.

A hand lifts from his ribs.  An arm brushes against his.

His eyes open just in time to see Q’s latex-clad fingers dipping into the forgotten bowl of cooking oil James had set out -- before he changed his mind and decided on sausage drippings for the scrambled eggs.

James has no idea when Q donned the glove. His mind has been … otherwise occupied.

As the dripping fingers are lifted from the bowl, James shivers.  

And does not whimper.  Not at all. 

He can feel Q’s chuckle, the vibrations pressed into the bones of his back.

And then those slick fingers are circling a sensitive swirl of skin and he is leaning forward again, pressing back against them as they slither and tantalise, circle and dip in barely to the first knuckle and then retreat.

“Oh, God!”  He doesn’t realise he’s spoken until he feels the flex of Alec’s fingers against his hip bones.

He doesn’t need much prep.  He knows this, as does Q. 

It’s only been two days.

But the boffin is taking his time, teasing him.

And so is Alec.

Exquisite, slow suction that brings him no closer to completion.

A greased glide that stretches him.  One finger slithering in and then withdrawing. Two thrusting suddenly, the burn dragging a hiss of breath from his lungs.

Before he can thrust back against them, the fingers are gone, a single tip tracing the rim.  Light pressure, just enough to know it’s there, but not enough to breach the ring of muscle.

He groans and drops his head between his arms.

He’s not ready to ask for it.  Beg for it. 

Yet.

Hot breath on his nape.  Wet kisses across sweat-gleaming shoulders.  Darting tongue tasting the salt.

Then the fingers are gone, and a lone thumb presses against him, nudging past the token resistance as he presses back against the intrusion.  Desperate to be filled, but unable to hurry the slow penetration, held in place by Alec’s strong grip. 

Latex-free fingers twist first one nipple, then the other, then slip up through the loop of the apron and into James’ mouth.

He pushes against the countertop, straightening as much as he can as he sucks on those fingers, tongue tracing the knuckles and the webs between them until finally,  _ finally _ , Q removes his thumb and slides his elegant and deliciously long fingers back into the heat of James’ arse, teeth locked in the muscle of James’ shoulder a testament to the control Q exerts over himself.

Q wants this to last.  Wants himself to last.

Wants to absolutely  _ wreck  _ James, wring every last drop of strength from him.

How else does one pamper one’s pet agent?

“Let me ... Move, please …” James moans around Q’s fingers, drawing Q’s attention from his struggle to be still.

Q shifts, straightens, and the movement pulls another groan from James.

Then, at some signal known only to the two of them, Alec and Q begin to move in tandem, somehow in perfect synchronization.

Q pulls his fingers out of James’ arse, centimetre by tantalising centimetre, drawing James back and sliding him from the sweet torture of Alec’s hot mouth.

The fingers in his mouth press against his palate, and James’ head tilts back as well, resting again on Q’s shoulder.

And then Q’s fingers fuck forward, and Alec swallows James down, sheathing him again in wet silk.

He hums, and James groans and then whimpers as Q draws back again.

Only to slam his fingers forward once more.  His lovers are perfectly in tune with each other.

They play James like master pianists performing  _ à quatre mains _ , and his body sings with the music they pull from him.

The groans, the sighs, the whimpers, and the half-heard pleas, that melody sings to  _ them _ .

And then the composition slows. 

The forceful thrusts of Q’s fingers are gentled.

The strong suction of Alec’s mouth is eased.

Adagio … 

They tease him mercilessly.

A languid tongue traces the contours of his erection.

A finger pad presses against his tongue and strokes it.

Two fingers are buried to the web, and crook and stroke within him.

“Nggggaaah!”

Whether he is begging around the weight on his tongue or moaning from the overwhelming sensation, none, not even James, can tell.

He shudders as those fingers glance across the oh-so-sensitive bundle of nerves inside him, and he strains to lure them back to it, but all he achieves for his efforts is a dark chuckle against his neck.

“Patience, James, will be rewarded.”

In his frustration, he considers gnawing on those fingers so deeply embedded in his mouth.

But before he can, the instruments of his torture are moving again...

The tongue ceases its tracing of his cock and dips down to lap at the crease between groin and thigh.

The fingers buried in his arse move, not as fast and hard as he wishes, but slowly in and out, stroking him as they go, exploring thoroughly as though charting new territory.

All at once, the fingers in his mouth are gone, and the tongue at his groin as well.

Before he can voice -- garbled though it might be -- his complaint, his hips are bucking against Alec’s fingers and a furnace has closed around one testical, the suction too gentle to be painful.

The fingers trace a wet pattern down the skin of his jaw.  His neck.

Explore a path along his clavicle and then dip behind the apron front.

A sharp tweak at one nipple followed by the other should not have been as unexpected as they are.

James is drowning in sensation.  

And then, finally, the two get down to business.

Q’s forearm threads back through the apron loop.  Not to resume his fingers’ place in James’ mouth, but to grip his shoulder, holding James tightly against Q’s body, giving Q all the leverage he needs to thrust and thrust and thrust with those wickedly talented fingers of his.

Alec alternates between sucking on James’ bollocks and licking or sucking on the tender flesh above them.

And James?

James puts all his energy into remaining upright because this …

This is torture.

Sweet agony.

Fire singing in his veins.

Knees weakening.

Breath thundering in and out of his lungs.

He cannot think.

Can barely breath.

And now he is grateful for Q behind him, he can split his weight between his arms and Q and not worry about collapsing on top of Alec.

Suddenly his balls are tightening and Alec is pulling off and -- impossible as it might seem -- Q is quickening his pace.

His hips are free and Alec’s slick hands work him, sliding up and down his length with that funny little twist of the wrist that James just can’t get enough of.

Stuttering hips jerk forward once, twice, and on the third he is coming, filling Alec’s waiting palm. 

His lungs go like bellows, great panting breaths as Alec shifts away and then stands.  James thinks he hears the water running in the sink nearby. 

Alec returns and trades places with Q.  A faint whimper escapes James at the loss of Q’s fingers. 

His joggers are drawn up, and then, to the sounds of Q washing up, Alec maneuvers James to the table and sits in the largest chair, cradling James firmly between his thighs, supported against his chest.

James sags back against him and attempts to catch his breath.

He hears Q return to the table and seat himself beside them.

How much time passes, James doesn’t care. He is content to just be, for a bit.

“S’not that ‘m complaining but, what brought this one?” James barely gets the words out around the thunder of his heart in his ears.

Q looks at Alec.

Alec looks at James from the corner of his eye.

And smirks. His eyes flick down to James’ chest and then back to fix on ice blue.

“Well, yer always tellin’ me I can’t follow instructions in th’ kitchen.”

James looks around at him in confusion for a split second before his own eyes drop to the apron still wrapped around his torso and the motto embroidered there.

_ Shag the Chef.  _

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are lovely and comments are true love. Enjoy! <3


End file.
